


O Cruelty of the Commander

by WizardSandwich



Category: Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Gen, Guilt, Injury, idw-ish elements but only kind of?, no editing i die like the tired fool i am, prowl has observations that aren't quite accurate
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-17
Updated: 2020-03-17
Packaged: 2021-03-01 05:42:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,267
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23190107
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WizardSandwich/pseuds/WizardSandwich
Summary: In which Prowl is dragged to the medibay.
Relationships: Jazz & Prowl, Prowl & Sideswipe & Sunstreaker (Transformers)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 62





	O Cruelty of the Commander

**Author's Note:**

> this is shit bc i wrote it and did not go over it again or anything tbh

Prowl is a lot of things—abrasive, pragmatic, strategic—but he has never thought himself cruel. Even with the knowledge of his decisions and the lives he has lost, he has never thought himself cruel. But blue optics peer at him, harsh and judgmental, and suddenly he cannot vent.

“You killed them,” the mech—Starweaver—accuses. His voice is full of malice and venom, an old song that Prowl is long used to from his Enforcer days. “You killed them.”

Prowl can feel all of the optics in the room level onto him. He can feel the stares that hunger for reaction. Prowl has a reputation of being cold and unforgiving and anyone would pay to see him break into pieces.

“I did no such thing.” Prowl cannot hear his voice shake and he is thankful for his self-control. “I was not the one who killed them.”

Starweaver snarls. It echoes in the silence, reverberates off of the accusation in the air, stings at Prowl’s spark like sparkbreak.

“You did! If you hadn’t sent them out—” Starweaver cuts himself off, heaves in a vent. “You killed them.”

Prowl’s doorwings lower in resignation but not submission—never again submission. He almost wants to leave, but it would set a horrible precedent. Rumors would fly.

“What came of my orders was not predicted,” Prowl says and it sounds weak to even his audials. “I could not have known what would have happened.”

Starweaver’s scowl breaks. Prowl has never seen such a look of pure hatred on anyone’s face before. The mech lunges.

The impact has Prowl falling backward. Starweaver is a heavy mech. One of his doorwings crushes beneath him. He can hear it echoing. He can feel the harsh pain. The twinge of burning that feels like being out in acid rain.

He does not scream, because he is Prowl and screaming would be a sign of weakness. Weakness is a killer. Instead, he grunts, grits his denta, and tries not to curl into a ball. He offlines his optics. He does not fight against a grieving soldier who needs an outlet. A servo claws into the space between his bumper and his abdomen. He can hear panicked voices.

Then the weight is gone.

Prowl takes a moment to vent, to feel the pain, before onlining his optics. A worried face—Bluestreak, he registers vaguely—peers down at him.

“Are you okay, commander?” Bluestreak asks, how a subordinate is concerned for his commander.

Prowl stares up at him, taking longer than he should to answer, “I’m fine.”

He can feel the hole in his side, the crushed doorwing. He is not fine. But that does not matter. Physical pain is a temporary thing. It is the accusations that hurt more. However, those are not Bluestreak’s concerns nor what he needs to be concerned about.

“Is Starweaver alright?” Prowl asks. He shifts, rolling onto his servos and moving to his pedes.

Bluestreak says, “He’s fine. One of the Ops mechs had a sedative on him.”

“Good.” Prowl approves. It was always good to be prepared. “Tell Ratchet that I recommend he see a counsellor.”

Bluestreak has no need to worry for Prowl so it is not surprising when he turns away and does not look back. “Got it, sir.”

The rest of the room is empty, likely cleared when the incident occurred. Prowl is the last mech to leave. He heads straight to his quarters. His hurts will wait. Maybe if he’s nice enough, he can recruit Sunstreaker to straighten his doorwing and make them both look new. It wouldn’t do much for the sensors but they didn’t really matter.

“The medibay’s down the other hall,” Jazz says.

Prowl almost jumps but he’s long been determined to never give Jazz the satisfaction. He turns to face him.

“I know where it is,” Prowl says. “I plan to head there later.”

Jazz takes a step closer. Prowl can’t read his optics, only the set of his mouth. He looks grim. “I think you ought to head there now, Prowl.”

The familiarity is uncomfortable. Jazz is the only one who speaks to him in this way. “Commander,” he corrects gently.

“We’re the same rank,” Jazz defends, though they’re not. “Now are you going to head to the medibay or am I going to have to drag you there myself?”

“I’ll head there when I’m ready to,” Prowl says firmly.

Jazz sighs, as if Prowl is a stupid mech and not a cruel one. “Fine,” Jazz says.

Prowl almost thinks that’s it, as he turns to walk down the hall again. His habsuite is several halls away still though, so perhaps he should not be surprised when Sideswipe and Sunstreaker meet him on the way there.

“So I hear you’re not going to the medibay,” Sideswipe says.

“Did Jazz comm. you?” Prowl asks.

“Well, if a little turbofox did happen to tell us, I don’t see how that’s any of your business.” Sideswipe shrugs him off.

“The question is: are you going the easy way or the hard way?” Sunstreaker looks down at him and somehow he looks even more grim than Jazz did.

Prowl scowls, glaring up at him, “Sunstreaker—”

“Hard way, then?” Sunstreaker has the audacity to grin at him, his sharp denta reflecting the light.

Prowl isn’t sure what he was expecting from them, but it certainly was not to be lifted and slung over Sideswipe’s shoulder.

“Put me down,” Prowl demands.

He can’t see Sideswipe now, but he can practically feel the grin in his voice, “Nope. Jazz demands that you be dropped into Ratchet’s calloused servos.”

“I hate you both,” Prowl grumbles into Sideswipe’s back.

Sideswipe pats Prowl’s aft gently. In response, Prowl kicks him hard enough to dent. Sideswipe yelps, “What the frag, Prowl?”

“You deserved it,” Sunstreaker says. Prowl is glad that someone has common sense.

“Yeah, yeah,” Sideswipe mutters. “Anyway, to the medibay.”

The twins chatter inanely the entire trip, banter that Prowl is long used to. They attempt to poke at him a few times, but Prowl has resigned himself to his fate and just wants to get it over with. They seem to get the message soon enough.

“There he is,” Ratchet’s voice rings out as they step into the medibay. “Put him down.”

Sideswipe maneuvers Prowl into his arms and gently sets him on the floor. His servo comes up to rest against the top of Prowl’s helm and he rubs affectionately. “See you later, Prowler.”

Prowl almost says something to him about the familiarity, but he’s already slipping away, Sunstreaker trailing behind him. “Hope you don’t expect me to buff that dent,” he hears him mutter.

Ratchet scowls at Prowl when they’re gone. He looks like a medic scorned, which he is. “You’re an idiot,” Ratchet says.

“I was going to come by later.”

“Was this before or after you got someone else to do a subpar job?” Ratchet asks.

Prowl almost flinches at the accusation but stands steady. There was little use in arguing or defense. Ratchet was not to be trifled in this regard.

“Why didn’t you come here, Prowl?” Ratchet asks softly, tiredly.

Prowl is not quite sure he has an answer for him. Or, he does, but he is not willing to speak it. How does one express deserving it without concerning a medic? So Prowl shrugs instead of answering.

Ratchet looks tired when he gestures to an empty berth. “When you’re ready to talk, tell me,” Ratchet demands.

“Of course,” Prowl says.

Silence falls. Prowl is not sure Ratchet will ever get what he wants.


End file.
